Samuel Armen

It's hard to imagine that the tranquil blues of Caribbean seas could be found anywhere near Armenia. But, as the bus entered Sevan, shades of cerulean waves appeared between the green trees and tan stones. Lake Sevan, from the gate where we entered, was first a resort, then a water park, and then finally the lake itself – stretched beyond sight in a misty horizon surrounded by gray mountains.

Upon getting settled in, I leaned back on one of the many lounge-chaises alongside our group and began contemplating our stay in Armenia so far.

The previous weeks – the last 15 days – I averaged about 6 hours of sleep per day. Some of these nights we would stray out until 4AM. After these long nights I would wake up at 7:30 AM to eat breakfast, drink coffee, read, write, and walk to work by 10AM. Work at HetQ would usually end around 4PM for me. I would walk back to Aegastan and be home at 5PM. Usually we would have some sort of 2 hour activity – either learning a facet of Armenian culture (language, dance, and history classes) or traveling across the country (Garni, Geghart, Sardarapad, Gyumri etc.)

Not a single day passed without activity. We were constantly moving. On top of all of this, I had one of the easiest work schedules – many of the interns had to wake up earlier. What was remarkable was that no one seemed to complain about our lack of sleep – I’m sure if anyone ever did, they’d forget by the time our group unanimously decided to party all night again.

 “We definitely deserve this relaxation” I thought to myself under the blanket of the increasingly-warm sunshine s my eyelids grew heavy and I fell asleep.

At some point past the sun-tanning, looking down the ocean-like horizon, and jumping into the lake, we decided to go in the tourist-like water park.

Here, we spent most of our time going down two water slides. The quality of the slides were terrible – so much so that we would get stuck and have to push ourselves down.

In response to this awful quality we decided to shout obnoxiously on every ride – as if we were having the times of our lives. Not surprisingly – the slides became far more enjoyable listening to each other screech bear calls and wailing in Spanish.

After eating a long lunch by the windy coast, we found ourselves on a bus ride to Sevanavank. Here we would enter a large market where men, women and children sold everything from antique knives to alabaster crosses.

After perusing their inventories we passed by them and began a climb upwards of one hundred steps. At the top of our ascent we would see two ancient churches and a 360° panorama of Sevan.

The two churches are named “Surb Arakelots” and “Surb Astvatsatsin” which translate to “Holy Apostles” and “Holy Mother of God” respectively. These monasteries are similar in appearance – both having intricately designed doors with passageways to small for me to fit in – and were founded in 874AD by King Ashot I’s daughter Princess Mariam.

Next to these churches were the remaining ruins of Gavit. What truly added brilliance to the sight of these structures was the continuous reminder that we were, in a sense, atop the world – we had the view of Lake Sevan's multitudinous blues and even a collection of small towns that were just visible in the distant mountain-valleys.

Hours after registering the serenity of these inneffably beautiful sights, we'd return back to Lake Sevan and have dinner at the resort.

As appetziers were served I could see that it began to rain outside. The rain then became a thunder storm. After several glasses of red wine (gini) I felt the liquidity of a powerful buzz.

I stood up with glass in hand, and made my way to the window. I couldn't help but laugh. We were drinking red wine while water poured from the flashing skies and dark waves crashed together, nearly toppling a most unfortunate white sail-boat in the distance.

A noise sounded behind me. The band had begun playing. I moved back to my seat, but red wine and the sound of the saxophone properly played drifted me into the abyss of inexpressable thoughts. I sat down, contemplated the music, and ate very slowly.

When the band finished I turned again to face our group. Everyone was eating, drinking, laughing, cheering, debating, and comparing the photos from their cameras. My eyes then fell upon the window. It appeared as if the storm ended. Again, I got up, but this time I made my way across the room to the door outside.

The rain had ceased and the only remains of a storm was the sweet thickness in the air and the occaisonal flashes of lightning far away, beaming silver linings over distant mountain tops. It was atop something like a cliff where I stood and where an intern soon joined me. Together we faced the enormous lake, which was then nearly waveless and tranquil, reflecting the purple clouds perfectly as if denying that such a storm was present only moments ago.

“I wish I had a camera right now,” I sighed.

 She told me she had a camera and went inside to the resort restaurant to retrieve it.

Before she returned, I lingered in the calmness of a solitary moment. The sounds of birds, voices and footsteps echoing from far away, and gentle waves brought about words in my mind. I saw and heard a group of 6 children below me – 3 girls and 3 boys – talking and laughing as they walked through a gravel parking lot near the docks. From my vantage point atop the hill I could make out that they couldn’t be older than ten years old.

I watched them giggle to eachother, whispering Armenain phrases that were unquestionably the very inside jokes that held them close together. And for some reason I wondered if, at some point in my life when I was near their age, I walked on a path with a group of my friends while, somewhere, a man was atop a tall hill, secretly watching us with a sense of déjà vu and taking in new scenery. 

When the intern returned, and after I had already taken three picture with her camera, I asked her “Can I be lame to you?” to which she responded with an amused nod.

“It's scenes like this that pour writing through me.” I said to her, focusing on the farthest mountain, which was faded nearly to an outline at that time.

“You're writing in your head right now?” She asked.

“Yes – I have a sentance already.”

“Yeah?” she asked. “Tell it to me.”

I pointed forward to Lake Sevan and the dozens of mountains and said “...and for some reason, the clouds, the sky, the water, the moutains, and everything seemed to hang under some shade of a smokey blue.”

I turned to her, she was looking at the mountains, shaking her head, smiling, and most likely scrutinizing the validity of my sentence. “That's not lame Sam.” She faced me. “I think you should walk around and narrate my life – that would be awesome.”

I doubt she wasn't aware of the huge appreciation I felt for such an odd compliment. Her eyes fell to the parking lot and dock below our hill. The children were gone. The sky was dark now. A cool wind passed us, making us both shiver.

We agreed to go inside, back to the pouring sound of the folk-music and our friends.

The bus ride back to Yerevan was filled with music an intern and I shared with each other, and leaving the dark blue world of Sevan under new rainfall.

The relaxation continued throughout our slumber, all the way back to Aegastan.